


The Painter

by EarthToQuinne



Category: All Time Low (Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Pining, Rival Street Artists, Trans Male Character, dumb boys in love, street artists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 20:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthToQuinne/pseuds/EarthToQuinne
Summary: Alex is a painter who is sick of hiding through his art and decides to tell Jack how he truly feels.





	The Painter

Paint speckled fingers brushed away dark strands of hair from his face, a gentle sweeping of fingertips over his forehead. The gesture was soft and held so much more meaning than could ever be put to words. As he gazed upon the curled figure of the boy sleeping next to him, tangled naked in the sheets, Alex sighed happily.

The soft glow of the morning drifted through the curtains, painting the room golden, casting irregular strips of sunlight on the pale walls. Distorted light washed over the boy on the bed, golden rays settled perfectly on his sleeping features. Alex loved to watch him sleep, his muscles relaxed and his beautiful face free of its usual grimace.

He always thought too much, that beautiful boy in his bed. He was so angry and turbulent, desperate to change the world. He was a spot of color in Alex's life, a source of pure, incomparable joy. But if he were to be given a color, he would be crimson. An angry, unmistakable red splotch of life on a blank canvas. It wasn't often that Jack looked peaceful. He was always fighting, plotting, planning. Never relaxing or sitting still. Yet, Alex couldn't help painting him.

Color had always come naturally to Alex. He saw the world vividly, in bright hues and distinct imagery. From the age of three, he had been painting. Smearing color on canvas, constructing worlds with the tip of a brush and a small hint of madness. Painting had always been his thing- the one source of immeasurable joy and peace in his life.

He had been called a genius. A prodigy. A master. But Alex had only ever felt like a painter. Forget the exhibitions and the prints and the museums. Sure, success was exciting, but he had never started with the hope of being successful. He just wanted to make things.

When Alex sat down in front of a blank canvas that morning, he wasn't planning out the scene, sketching shapes on canvas or over contemplating which shades to use. He simply looked at his lover, curled up naked in the sheets of his bed, and felt an overwhelming desire to capture this moment. This rare, shining moment of bliss and quiet.

The moment he pulled out his brush, he ceased to be. He became an instrument, a machine, blending color and shape, distorting reality on canvas. Usually, when he painted, he was able to shut his mind off and focus solely on his work. But every time he painted Jack, it was different. His chest exploded with warmth, his heart thudding loudly in his ears, his cheeks red. Whenever he painted him, hell, whenever he looked at him, Alex felt the kind of wonder that paralyzed him in the moment. He wanted to do nothing but stop and stare, to stay in that moment forever. The moments never lasted, though. Once Alex had finished the painting and the moment was over, Jack was awake, gathering his clothes, leaving. Off to try and change the world.

Those moments were always so bittersweet. So achingly beautiful in their rarity, they left Alex afraid that when Jack woke up, he would never come back. This fear plagued Alex constantly and lead him to the canvas, where he could capture those moments and keep them forever. Even after Jack had pulled on his combat boots, straightened his leather jacket, gathered his bag of supplies, cans of spray paint clanking together as he walked out the door, and out of his life.

Alex knew that he was fucked the first time he painted Jack. They had been sitting in a cab, in the early months of their knowing each other, and Jack had been leaning out the window, smoking a cigarette, the city blurring in blotches of color behind him.

Their hands had been close together on the seat, the smallest sliver of space between them. Alex had wanted so badly to hold his hand, but it had seemed stupid considering that they were on their way back to Alex's apartment for a quick fuck. But Alex did it anyway, interlocking their fingers before he could stop himself.

Jack hardly acknowledged it- just leaned out the cab window, arm extended as he smoked. But in the low light, Alex could see the way he tried to hide his smile, his lips curving around his cigarette as he looked away, out at New York buzzing around them.

When they got back to his apartment, Alex couldn't get the image out of his head. Even when Jack's lips were on his neck, even when Jack was inside him. It stayed implanted in his mind even after Jack had fallen asleep in his bed curled up with his back to him. So he painted as Jack slept unaware, crafting a portrait of a hazy silhouette of a man, his features obscured by darkness, just the barest glint of his smile sparkling in the light, his arm extended slightly and out of the frame, as if he were reaching for something, holding something.

Though he was the focus of the image, he was not in the center. He was off to the far right, leaning against what appeared to be a cab seat. The windows of the cab were speckled with rain, the blurry outline of a fast food billboard shining through in the background, along with specks of green and red in the distance. Alex stayed in that moment for six hours straight, not stopping to eat or piss or check his phone, which went off over twenty times.

He just sat and painted, until the canvas was full of memories and his arms were aching, even when Jack woke up and smiled sleepily at him. Even when those long arms curled around his naked waist and made him feel like it was normal to wake up to this every morning. Jack lit a fire in his gut that he didn't know how to tame. However, they had long established that they could be nothing more than what they were.

Still, Alex let himself paint him, even though he swore that he never would. Portraits were personal, things he hardly ever did because they not only required a precise amount of patience but also obsession. In order to get the details right, to accurately capture the intimacy in it's most candid form, he had to know what it felt like to be there. Which is why he had only been painting landscapes and nature scenes for years. They weren't exactly heartfelt or profound, but they were beautiful and they made him happy. It didn't hurt that they also helped him to pay his rent. He had told himself that he did this because it was easy- nature was everywhere, but it was difficult to find a willing model who would sit for hours, unmoving. But he knew the truth.

Every time he let himself paint Jack, he fell more and more into the moment. Whether it was his hands holding Alex's then-newborn kitten in them, so strong yet so gentle; or the reflection of the city in his eyes whenever they took the fairy out across the city to get to Jack's apartment in Brooklyn; or his red cheeks flushed in the cold winter air, grimacing in an attempt to hide a smirk as Alex grinned at him all bundled up in the red scarf Alex had knitted him for Christmas. Alex saw Jack with the eyes of an artist, taking in everything and never forgetting even the smallest of details.

It only took one glance at any of Alex's recent portraits for one to see that he was madly in love with him.

That morning, as he mixed the whites and yellows on his palette, trying to create the perfect shade, Alex knew that this truth was something that couldn't be ignored any longer. He had never let Jack see any of the portraits he made him. They may have come from two different worlds but Jack was smart and perceptive. As much as Alex tried to hide his feelings in person, he didn't hold back at all in his portraits.

He was praised by the New York art world for being a fresh, contemporary painter who painted vivid landscapes and well as sensual moments that showcased and celebrated his sexuality. Alex had been openly queer for as long as anyone could remember. But perhaps growing up in New York did that to a person- it was like a whole different world there. Living in the city, he often forgot about what it was like everywhere else. New York wasn't perfect, but it was so large there was a kind of freedom in being open. It didn't have any many risks as it would've been in the Midwest, especially Ohio, where Jack was from.

He didn't talk about it much, but Alex knew that there was fear hidden underneath his dark clothes and abrasive persona. As much as he denied it, Alex had seen the murals Jack painted- peppered throughout New York, mostly in Brooklyn. They were displayed brightly and openly on the sides of buildings, often abandoned but still somehow managing to capture the attention of every passerby.

Jack's paintings were nothing like Alex's. They were made from molds he created in his shop. Weeks of planning went into them, an equal amount of time, passion, and pain poured into each one. Jack was a painter, but more of a street artist than Alex. He had had a few of his pieces in exhibits, once upon a time, but he had hated the confinement and the structure. Due to his anarchistic nature, there was also a thrill of doing something illegal.

Most of his pieces were political in nature. Often featuring images of battered trans men and women, or queer people kissing amidst a rainbow background in the shape of a mushroom cloud. If Alex's pieces were a commentary on the peaceful aspects of being queer, Jack's were the opposite. His paintings were just like him- angry, bold, and honest. Jack was hailed by critics and admirers as the "Young Banksy" due to the nature of his work and how he preferred to be anonymous.

Alex smiled fondly as he painted the outline of his lover on the bed, remembering the morning he had woken up to find Jack fuming over an article on a well-known underground art blog that had compared him to Banksy.

"I can't believe they compared me to that pretentious twat!" he had seethed as Alex erupted into giggles that earned him a series of sharp glares that he erased with a flurry of soft kisses to Jack's neck.

Jack knew that Alex had seen some of his art. It was impossible not to, living in New York. And it wasn't as if Jack chose discreet places to paint. Often, Alex stumbled upon them on the way to his studio or when he was leaving a business meeting. Jack was strangely secretive and protective of his work and refused to let Alex come along and watch him paint. Alex understood it since he felt the same way about his own.

It was an unspoken rule between them to not talk about each other's work, though. Jack wouldn't question the obscure portraits Alex painted of a strange man in intimate scenes, his face usually obscured or distorted. And Alex wouldn't talk about the man who occurred often in Jack's more recent pieces who always held a heart-shaped balloon in one hand (an ironic salute to the "pretentious twat" Alex knew Jack secretly admired) and a paintbrush in the other, a red cord wrapped around his wrist that ran off the edge of the frame.

There was a hushed rumor going around about the identities of both men, however, no one had seemed to figure out that they were painting each other. In a sort of secret competition, every time Alex painted Jack, Jack painted Alex. It had started with that first painting in the taxi, and continued throughout the months they knew each other. Often Alex felt like Jack's paintings were like love letters, spread out across New York. And it somehow hurt more knowing that he was right that it would've if he thought that he was wrong.

Jack was his friend, but he had made it clear when they had started this that he didn't fall in love. Along the way, Alex knew he had. It was undeniable at this point. Jack Barakat was so deeply in love with him that he refused to admit it. He could tell in the way that he looked at him. The way that he held him, so gently and carefully. The way that he fucked him, eyes locking, fingers intertwining, ears pressing to chests to feel the way the heart pounded against the skin.

After about five and a half hours, Alex had finished the portrait, his arms aching, forehead plastered in sweat, and yellow paint smeared on his face. He was just getting up from his stool to wash out his brushes when he heard the mattress creak. Alex watched Jack come back into the world of the living, groaning slightly as he arched his back and popped his joints, willing the sleep from his body.

He rolled over onto his side, looked at Alex dreamily, his hair an absolute disaster and his eyes heavy with drowsiness. Alex's heart ached at the sight of him.

"What time is it?"

Alex just went about picking up his things. Pretending that his whole body wasn't aching with a love he knew would eat him alive. "10:30. You want me to call an Uber?" Jack usually left by 6, gone before Alex even woke up. It was less messy that way. On good days, which were rare and far between, he stayed and drank coffee in Alex's bed while playing with his hair, their legs entwined as the TV droned on at a low volume. Those were always the best days.

Jack watched the sun glint through the curtains in now blinding strips and shook his head against the pillow, which just made it even worse. "Nah, you don't have to. Do you care if I stay?"

Alex tried not to act as surprised as he felt. "No, it's not like I have anything to do today anyway. Saturdays are my 'fuck off' days."

Jack stretched again and smiled as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Cool, because I wasn't planning on leaving this bed anyway."

Alex rolled his eyes as he walked out into the kitchen. "You're such a freeloader!" he called.

He heard Jack's laugh echoing through the quiet apartment as he watched the yellow paint bleed out into the sink. The colors stained the water a milky brown as it swirled down the drain. Alex didn't bother scrubbing his hands. His skin was eternally paint-stained by now, anyway.

Once the brushes were clean, he turned on the coffee pot and searched the cupboard for the mug Jack loved, the one with Van Gogh's "The Starry Night" printed on the front. Alex had gotten it his second week living alone in New York, at the first art museum his work was displayed at a few months later.

Jack had a thing for Van Gogh, but would never admit it out loud. He tried so hard to distance himself from the uppity, "intellectual" art scene. But Alex knew that he had that same painting hanging in his bedroom above his work desk. He fixed Jack's coffee with far too much cream and sugar, while his own was black.

He carefully brought the mugs into the bedroom and was about to sit down on the edge of his bed when he noticed that Jack had gotten up to look at his painting. His eyebrows were furrowed and his expression unreadable. Panic rose in Alex's chest.

"I made you coffee," Alex offered weakly.

Jack reached out and took the mug from him, brought the rim to his lips, took a careful sip, and continued to study the painting. Alex shifted so he stood beside him, facing the front of the canvas and realized how different this one was from the rest.

Jack's face was in plain view, his features captured beautifully and intricately, his identity unmistakable. He was no longer obscured by darkness or costume or the confines of the frame. He was there, glowing and beautiful in his curled up state. Like an angel.

"Why do you do things like this?"

"What do you mean?" Alex asked as he studied the canvas, trying to see what he had done wrong.

"Why do you paint me like that?" He gestured towards the painting, absorbing the softness in the image reflected back at him. Alex knew it was strange, seeing yourself through someone else's eyes. Especially when you knew that looking would reveal far more than you wanted to know.

"Like... what, Jack?"

"Like I'm some sort of... god or something."

Alex chuckled. "I just paint you how I see you."

Jack took a sip from his mug and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I told you to stop painting me. I'm just not interesting enough for you to waste your time."

He furrowed his eyebrows and visibly bristled. "Well, it pays my fucking rent so I don't think it's a complete waste."

Jack looked away, out at the city racing past below them. He shrugged, bare shoulders hunching inward, posture curling in on itself. He looked so fragile like this, sleepy eyes, messy hair, top surgery scars visible on his bare chest. "You know what I mean."

Alex rolled his eyes and sat down on the bed, suddenly feeling tired. "No, I don't. You might have to spell it out for me."

Jack sighed and walked across the room to sit down next to him. "Lex... I don't..." he was quiet for a moment. "You don't hide anything." Alex looked up and saw that he was staring at him, dark eyes flooded with sunlight and sadness.

"I have no reason to. I don't want to, Jack."

Jack frowned and took another sip of his coffee. Alex's mug hadn't moved from its place on the bedside table. Steam rose lazily from its surface, evaporating into the tension between them. "I- I don't either. I just can't... I can't express things the same way you do. You're so open- in your art, in your identity, in your personality. But I hide from all of it. Hell, even the murals I paint on the sides of three-story buildings are so full of "artsy" bullshit that you can't tell how much I fucking rip my heart out to make them.

"You're not afraid to be soft and to be open about how you feel. But it honestly terrifies me. It eats me alive and it- it keeps me awake and wired at night. So I go out and I paint until I can't feel my fingers but at the end of the day, it's all still there, even if I don't say it. I used to think that something was only real if you said it out loud and I still try to convince myself that's true but... when I see how you paint, it wakes me the fuck up and it's scary."

Alex just stared at the sunlight peeking its way through the curtains, strips of jagged light growing wider as the sun rose higher in the sky. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

Jack ran his hand through his hair again, took another sip, then was still as he contemplated. "You know which side of the bed I like even though I never told you, you make my coffee exactly the way I like it when everyone always assumes I want it black. You hold my hand on the cab rides home and you- you text me every morning after I leave to make sure I'm not dying in an alley. And you make me feel beautiful and wanted and all of the shit seems to become less shitty when you're around."

Alex smiled and looked away, then snuck a peek at Jack's face to see him smiling too. "So I guess what I'm trying to say is that... you're the most important person in my life. You make me feel like I'm seventeen again but the difference is that this time, I have nothing to be afraid of anymore. I was just so used to hiding that I guess I never really stopped."

"You know you have nothing to hide with me," Alex murmured and grabbed Jack's free hand, fingers interlocking, all of them smudged and speckled with ink and paint.

Jack nodded and smiled around the rim of his mug. Alex smiled too. And they didn't have to say it out loud right then because they both knew it. The truth sat beside them as they drank their coffee and watched TV, legs intertwined. Alex knew that it would be said in time, but for now, just being there with Jack was enough. They would define what they were later when the truth had the chance to settle; when they were ready. For now, he was happy to stay suspended with him in that moment.

-

Two months later, Alex arrived at his and Jack's new apartment, keys in hand, Chinese takeout in the other. He had a long day of meetings and planning and staring at papers and he just wanted to sit down on the couch with his boyfriend (boyfriend!), watch TV and cuddle, basking in the fact that they would have two days to just fuck around and do nothing. It had been weird transitioning from dysfunctional to normal in a span of a few months, but Alex was okay with it because it meant that he got to come home to Jack every night and sleep with him in the same bed without worrying that he would be gone in the morning.

It felt like Heaven on Earth being able to get excited over small things like folding their laundry or going grocery shopping together. Sure there were drawbacks of living together, like not being able to have small things like your underwear or your toothbrush to yourself, but the positives drastically outweighed the negatives.

With the containers in his arms, Alex fumbled with his keys as he attempted to open the door with one hand. Once he got inside, he set everything down on the kitchen counter and lazily kicked off his shoes on the way to hi- their bedroom. It was something he hadn't gotten used to, the fact that there was an "ours" and "theirs" now.

He was so busy in his task of finding clothes to wear that was not in any way suit-and-tie like that he didn't notice the spectacle going on outside his bedroom window. Although their apartment was nice and located in a good neighborhood, the one drawback was that the sole window in the bedroom faced an old factory. Alex missed his view of downtown New York, with the Hudson sprawling in the distance. It may him feel claustrophobic, going from a beautiful, scenic view to a blank wall.

So Jack had decided to change that. He had spent the entire night before painting and hadn't come to bed until 6 AM, the exact time that Alex left for his meeting. Alex didn't question it and just assumed that Jack was working on another one of his projects. Alex had convinced him to finally start selling his pieces to galleries and doing commission work under his actual name, while he still continued to do street art on the side.

But the pieces quickly clicked together as Alex saw the mural Jack had painted for him, framed by the usually closed curtains, which were now wide open. It was a beautiful full-color portrait, he and Jack's faces to the viewer, frozen in a kiss. Jack's hand clasped the side of his face and their mouths were slightly upturned at the corners, indicating that they were smiling mid-kiss. Alex remembered this picture vividly; there were only two copies of it in existence. One of them was folded in his wallet and the other on Jack's bedside table, tucked into the corner of a framed picture of his family on Christmas. They had taken it at a bar inside a cheap photo booth a few years before when they first started to hookup. It had been their first kiss.

And Jack had managed to blow it up so it covered almost the entire side of the building. There was no way he could've managed to get a picture that small into a stencil that size, but somehow he had done it. His heart caught in his throat as he tried to decide which parts he wanted to look at first when his eyes caught on the words: "I love you."

Jack found him crying on the bed when he walked in ten minutes later. Alex couldn't stop sobbing long enough to say that he loved him, too. But it was okay. Jack knew. He knew it all too well.


End file.
